Murder at Meadowlark

By Doris Hay

Luella Genova has never been great at speaking her mind. When community-spirited high school student Chandelle Jervais asks her to bring one of her famous lasagnas to the potluck at Meadowlark Retirement Residence, the aging widow would rather stay home and swallow a bottle of pills.

Who’d have thought lasagna could change a lady’s life?

When Luella arrives at Meadowlark, a woman has just died—not an uncommon occurrence in a home for seniors, but Luella smells a rat. Even the old woman’s family is satisfied to believe that she died of natural causes, but that only makes Luella more suspicious. The only way to prove it was murder... is to find the killer!

Book One in the Lasagna Lady Mysteries series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rainbow Crush
• Release date: Jul 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370033249

Doris Hay

Doris Hay has always loved a good mystery. As author of the Lasagna Lady Mysteries, she dreams up meaty plots--and vegetarian ones too! Her books are set in Toronto, where she lives and writes, and feature a diverse cast of characters.

Book preview

Book One

Doris Hay

1

No use trying to talk her out of it. Luella had made up her mind.

She toppled the bottle on its side so its contents spilled across the coffee table. Non-descript pills tumbled across the leather inlay. The leather inlay of the horrid piece of home furnishing Gianni had ordered from the Eaton’s on College Street in 1973. He’d selected this monstrosity, with its tiger veneer and brass tacks and gold-trimmed leather, without so much as consulting her.

Coming from any other husband, that might be construed as a sweet, if tacky, gift. A surprise for his darling wife.

Coming from Gianni, it was yet one more assertion of his power over her.

She should have burned it when he died, burned the whole house to the ground. Nothing in it was truly hers. Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of neighbouring homes going up in flames. Nabila and her kids would have nowhere to live.

No, no sense going out in blazes. A person should die the way they lived. As far as Luella was concerned, a quiet death would be just what the doctor ordered—though she doubted Dr. Gupta had suicide in mind when he prescribed this batch of sleeping pills.

She hesitated, wondering if the kindly doctor would bear the brunt of the blame when she was found dead, killed by the script he’d written. But no. How could he be held culpable after the act she’d put on in his office? She hadn’t felt entirely comfortable taking on the role of Grieving Widow, but it was an easy fit. Wouldn’t most wives have trouble sleeping in an empty bed following the death of a husband who’d been her constant companion from the age of sixteen?

Most wives would.

Not Luella.

But suicide would have to wait, she thought, glancing at the stack of cash she’d extracted from all her various bank accounts.

She’d stood tall, held her ground as she’d instructed the teller to close out everything but the chequing account, where her husband’s pension would likely continue to land even months after her death. The kids could divide up what was left in that, but before she killed herself she’d have to choose a deserving charity. Choose a charity and give away the cash Gianni had squirreled away throughout their married life.

A more interesting person would go on a spending spree, maybe take it to the casino. But what use was there in acquiring more things, or even more money, when her plan was to off herself the very next day.

Off herself.

That term made Luella shudder.

She wouldn’t be offing herself, thank you very much. Taking her own life? Sure. Committing suicide? That, she would do. Ending it all, even. Offing herself sounded practically pornographic. Not at all her style.

Luella had just about finished rounding up her pills and dropping them back in the bottle when she heard a set of footsteps approaching her front door. Could have been the woman who delivered the Etobicoke Mirror—late, as always—except, no, the Mirror had been delivered yesterday. On time. Anyway, the delivery woman always placed the free paper on the landing without walking up those creaky wooden stairs leading to the front porch.

Luella hurriedly dropped the remaining pills in the bottle. She set it beside her stack of cash, on the ledge of the upright piano—which was undoubtedly out of tune, considering it hadn’t been played since the kids were young.

As she considered the wad of cash and bottle of pills, she felt she was living the life of some sort of rock and roll musician.

Sure enough, there was a knock at the door. Luella’s heart thumped. She took one last look at the money and the drugs before pushing aside the sun-bleached curtains. The girl on the porch must have sensed movement from inside, because her head swivelled so fast her long black braids swung behind her.

Luella had never seen this girl before. She had dark brown skin and wore a light brown pantsuit—perhaps more orange than brown. The colour of a fox, at any rate. Her face appeared quite young—a pretty teenager, tall and slim, with subtle features—but the suit made Luella second-guess herself.

What kind of teenager wore a pantsuit, for goodness’ sake?

A huge smile sprouted across the girl’s lips. She raised one hand, curling her long fingers in a wave, though she couldn’t possibly have seen Luella through the window’s glare.

No use pretending not to be home.

Very well, then, Luella grumbled as she tramped to the door. Before she’d fully opened it, she asked, What are you selling? Religion or hot water heaters?

The girl looked perplexed for a moment, and then bounced as though her body were attempting to remove itself from her shoes. Oh, I’m not selling anything, ma’am. My name is Chandelle Jervais. I go to West End Collegiate. She turned slightly to indicate the redbrick building across the street. That school right there.

The first thought that popped into Luella’s head was: my kids both went to that school. The second thought was: my husband always said there were too many poor kids coming over from the apartments on the other side of Jane Street, that the city should build a separate school for them—though he’d phrased it rather differently.

Instead of expressing either of those thoughts, Luella said, I hear you kids every day at 3:30 when school lets out. I hear your basketballs along the sidewalk —thump, thump, thump.

Chandelle’s smile flickered momentarily, which told Luella she had no idea how to react to such a statement. Luella couldn’t very well blame the girl. What a stupid thing to say. This child obviously wasn’t the basketball-playing type, though with her height she’d likely do well. Not to mention the fact that, even when she stood still, she seemed to be eternally bouncing around.

The girl held a clipboard against her chest. After swiftly consulting it, she said, I’m here because I’m organizing an event at Meadowlark Retirement Residence on Sunday. We learned in Social Studies class that senior citizens often feel socially isolated. Same goes for recent immigrants and… well, a lot of people, really. So I thought it might be good to have a community gathering where groups of people who wouldn’t normally get together can mingle.

Where did you get my name? Luella asked, wondering is Nabila next door had reported her to some agency as a socially isolated senior. Technically true—if socially isolated meant having no friends or close family, and if senior referred to anyone over the age of 60—but not a problem she was looking to fix.

Chandelle’s expressive face took on a note of concern. She must have thought she’d offended Luella, because she hurriedly said, Oh, I didn’t get your name from anywhere. I’m going door-to-door around the neighbourhood asking everyone if they’d like to—

Donate a bit of money! Luella exclaimed, so gleefully the girl nearly jumped out of her wedge heels.

Isn’t it nice when everything comes together so neatly?

No, no, Chandelle explained. I’m not collecting—

Come in, come in, Luella said, beckoning the girl into the front room. At this point, she didn’t even care whether the charity was legit or this high school student was outright robbing her. Anything to prevent her kids from getting their grubby hands on her cash. How much would you like?

Chandelle followed Luella reluctantly into the dark house and stood in the doorframe dividing the front room from the foyer. I’m not collecting money, Mrs…

Genova, but call me Luella. She slipped a few hundred-dollar bills out from the elastic. It sounds like a wonderful initiative. Take as much as you need.

Thank you, that’s a very kind offer, but, actually, I’m not allowed to take money. I’m just hoping to sign people up. It’s a potluck, the way we’re doing it. There’s no cost to attend. Everybody just brings food for the gathering—as much or as little as you can afford.

Chandelle eyed the wad of cash as Luella returned it to its resting place on the piano. She watched the girl’s gaze then transfer to the bottle of sleeping pills, and wondered if perhaps inviting a stranger into her home had been a mistake. She knew what her husband would have said on the matter, but she tried to put that out of her head.

Would you like a cup of tea? Luella asked.

No, thank you.

A soft drink? A glass of milk?

No thanks, Mrs. Genova. I appreciate the offer, but I actually have a lot of doors to knock on before I get started on my school work.

Isn’t this for school, this project with the old folks’ home?

Chandelle shrugged gently as she gazed at her clipboard. No, I’m actually just organizing this because I want to. I’ve already finished my community service hours.

Community service hours? Gianni would be rolling in his grave if he knew Luella had invited a juvenile offender into their home.

She felt a self-satisfied grin growing across her lips.

Nothing you can do about it now, oh husband mine. I might just invite her to move into Shannon’s old room. How about that?

When did you say this was happening? Luella asked.

Chandelle brightened again, and said, It’s this Sunday at Meadowlark Retirement Residence.

Sunday? That’s soon.

I know. I’m sorry. Chandelle offered a sympathetic frown, then said, I started off just inviting people in my building, then the building next to mine. It’s taken weeks to knock on all these doors.

How many students are organizing the event?

Just me, Chandelle replied, bouncing on her heels, perky as anything. But that’s okay. I like organizing stuff. It’s fun.

The girl’s eager sincerity shattered what was left to be broken of Luella’s armoured heart. Do your parents help you at all?

Oh, yes. My parents do a ton of community work. They’re the ones who inspired me to take initiative. She slipped a sheet of paper out from her clipboard. My mom actually printed these flyers for me.

Luella did recall spotting this flyer tacked to a hydro poll on one of the rare occasions she’d recently left the house. She’d never have guessed it was put together by a high school student, much less a juvenile offender attempting to redeem herself through good works. There wasn’t much that moved her to tears these days, but she found this young woman’s efforts quite touching.

If you think you can make it, I’ll write down your name, Chandelle said. And it’s good if you can tell me you’re going to bring. That way we won’t end up with forty tuna casseroles and zero desserts.

Of course, Luella replied, clearing her throat so her voice wouldn’t break. I suppose I could throw together a homemade lasagna. I haven’t made one in a while, but the kids used to love it.

Oh, you have kids? Chandelle asked, giving a kind smile.

Luella knew this was only polite conversation, but it was more than she could handle. This girl’s true kindness contrasted sharply with her own children’s greed. In light of all that was going on her mind, she found herself tearing up.

Young Chandelle met her gaze with one of pure empathy, and said, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.

No, no, my treasure. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just a little broken up…

Oh.

…after losing my Noodles.

Oh…? Chandelle’s eyes widened and she raised a brow as she consulted her clipboard. Well, you don’t have to bring lasagna if you don’t want to. You could bring something else.

Luella let out a laugh, cackling bleakly. She was already holding back tears. My dog, dear! My dog!

The girl looked around cautiously, as though she were afraid of stepping on something she couldn’t see.

He’s not here, Luella said. Noodles—my dog. He’s in a hole in the backyard.

Ohhh, the girl said. "Noodles is a dog."

"Was a dog."

And he died?

No, treasure, Luella said with a sudden burst of antagonism. I buried a live dog under six feet of dirt. What do you think? Of course he’s dead.

Chandelle stopped bouncing. She held her clipboard tight to her chest. Her voice was sadly subdued when she said, I’ve put you down for homemade lasagna. The address is on the flyer, and there’s a little map in the corner, in case you have trouble finding it.

I’ve lived in this house since 1973. You think I’ll have trouble finding it?

No, ma’am, Chandelle replied, lowering her gaze to the spot where Noodles used to sleep. Thanks again for your participation. The seniors will be so happy to get to know some of the younger people in the neighbourhood.

At first, Luella thought Chandelle was referring to herself—high school students, younger people—but after a moment’s reflection, she realized Chandelle was including Luella in this category of younger people in the neighbourhood. She’d have accused anyone else of being a hopeless flatterer, but not Chandelle. Sincerity gleamed through this girl’s pores like splashes of sunshine. She obviously believed what she said.

I should get going, Chandelle said, speaking more to the clipboard than to Luella. Lots more doors to knock on.

Wait. Luella surprised herself by grabbing the sleeve of the girl’s suit jacket, preventing her from leaving. Wait just one moment. I have to… I need to… apologize… for my rudeness.

Oh, you don’t have to. You weren’t rude.

I was, and I shouldn’t have been. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and look how I turn around and treat you! I’m a wicked old woman and the world would be better off without me.

That’s not true. The young woman’s friendly gaze met Luella’s, apprehensively, and then shifted to the velvet curtains. Have you noticed these drapes are blocking out a lot of light? It’s so nice and sunny out today.

Too much sun hurts my eyes, Luella said, though she found her fingers releasing the fabric of Chandelle’s jacket when the girl stepped

Reviews for Murder at Meadowlark

[Cyril Albar · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I would vote for it as it is such a beautiful novel that tackles so many real-life issues. I loved it to pieces and wish everyone would read it just once in their lives :) If you have some great stories like this one, you can publish it on Novel Star, just submit your story to [e-mail] or [e-mail]